


a sea and sky in himself

by JennaCupcakes



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:08:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29045106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: Some midshipmen don’t know how to knock.
Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames
Comments: 23
Kudos: 71
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	a sea and sky in himself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Palpalou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palpalou/gifts).



> [Vdraws](https://twitter.com/vdrawsing) Vdraws on twitter dropped [this lovely piece](https://twitter.com/vdrawsing/status/1353396182719074305?s=20) and I had to go and write the story to accompany it. I am shamelessly lending [reserve’s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/pseuds/reserve) ‘what if Crozier had been on the St. Vincent with FJ’ from [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24167734), which is So Good.
> 
> My endless thanks to both my partner and [Kt_fairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy) for helping me with the historical research. 
> 
> For my Terror Bingo square 'dress uniform'.

The door slid shut with the whisper of a quiet scrape of wood on wood. When it closed, the sounds of the ship dulled behind Francis. He closed his eyes, and let out a breath.

Being able to close a door behind himself at the end of a long shift was a blessed relief. Of all the privileges of rank, it was the one he appreciated most—he had never been popular among his peers, something that left him constantly on his guard when around others. The solitude of his cabin allowed him to release the breath he was holding, to un-tense his shoulders and rest. Some might call it lonely. Francis thought that if it was lonely, he was perhaps simply suited to loneliness. Certainly he’d never be popular enough that—

He sighed. This morning he’d been on deck as several of the midshipmen disembarked the St. Vincent for the allures of Valetta, glimmering brightly under the Mediterranean sun. The sky had been cloudless, the kind of unnaturally deep blue that it only had around here. The entire island seemed to exist in a monochrome of blue and sand golden that stung Francis’s eyes, but not as much as the sight of the midshipmen.

Well, one specific midshipman.

James Fitzjames had first come to Francis’s attention by inserting himself brashly into a conversation of which he’d not previously been a part, only to share what he no doubt thought to be an indispensable piece of wisdom. He’d managed to cover for this breach of protocol with a winning smile that left everyone but Francis dazzled within half a minute, fawning over the young man’s quick wit. Francis had seethed. He had no time for upstart careerists that were still green around the nose, even if Fitzjames was rather old for a midshipman.

This morning, Fitzjames, like the other midshipmen had been wearing his dress uniform. All of them had been dressed to impress—and who were they looking to impress out here, besides some easily flustered local girls—but Fitzjames tended to go the extra mile. He’d looked—well, others might have called him handsome, but Francis thought his whole appearance was rather showy, styled to draw eyes rather than impart upon the casual viewer the full might and power of the Royal Navy.

At least, Francis thought, with Fitzjames on shore leave, he’d be out of Francis’s hair for the day.

Fitzjames must have sensed his dislike upon their first meeting—the truth was very likely that Francis had not gone to very great lengths to conceal it. He seemed to draw from Francis’s ire a certain spiteful resolve, trying for twice the efficiency in every single of his tasks and then jutting his chin out at Francis as though expecting a pat on the head. Francis’s aversion to Fitzjames’s manner made him twice as obstinate, which in turn made Francis dislike him more.

It was no matter now. The boys were sure to be gone for at least another hour, and Francis was off duty anyway. He had the privacy of his cabin, and no one was expecting to see him for the rest of the night. He might make use of this time and privacy for certain… _diversions_.

He didn’t often indulge himself thusly. Habit, trained by years of his life where he was unsupervised for minutes at most, had been too strict a teacher, but on days like this—when the air was so hot that his body felt weightless, with sweat pooling under his uniform all day—he felt he deserved the release.

He quickly peeled off his uniform, and even took the time to fold it away neatly. The shirt he hung up to dry—it was damp from a day of sweating both abovedeck and below—before changing his mind and putting it back on. It would have to be laundered anyway. Better to keep the sheets clean.

He shuffled into his bunk awkwardly. Space was scant, as always on ships, and Francis had his share of bruised elbows and shins to prove it. He finally settled in, though his lower back complained, a sign of age that Francis didn’t care for.

He closed his eyes, and let his mind wander.

In his younger days, Francis, like every young man, had not lacked in his imagination of partners that might grace his bed—one unlikelier than the next, but still desired with the ferocity of a young heart that hadn’t been taught to curb its wanting. He’d learnt quickly that some desires were safer than others, though he—a pasty, freckled awkward boy who’d grown into a pasty, freckled, awkward man—rarely ever found someone he could set his heart on without courting the danger of breaking it. He’d always been someone who fell head over prick for a pretty face, no matter how ill-advised.

Nearing middle age, Francis had learnt to make do without those images. The people he pictured were nameless, faceless, so as to shelter his heart from disappointment. He might picture a firm arse under his hands and around his prick without damning himself, that way. He might imagine choking on another man’s prick, or burying his face in some nameless woman’s cunt, happily ensconced between her thighs, and not wake up with an aching heart the next day.

His prick stiffened slowly under the touches of his hand. His other hand rested on his stomach. He closed his eyes, focussing on the slow drag on his prick. The hand he imagined wasn’t his own but that of a stranger, smiling a wicked smile at him from between his legs.

“Oh Francis,” they might say, “What a fine prick you have,” then squeeze him tightly in a firm grasp.

Francis grunted, his prick firming further. This was safe, but what wouldn’t he give for just one night with someone who would indulge him. Who wouldn’t kick him out of bed come morning with no second look to spare.

He was sweating again. His head felt warm, and his breath was shortening. The need to spend was already nearly overwhelming; it had been too long, and Francis yearned for the looseness that came with release, the blissed moments where he felt free of his mind and body. He squeezed himself more tightly; hissed at the pressure. His blood was pounding in his ears.

It certainly couldn’t be said that Francis had been careless before he indulged himself—he’d taken great pains to make sure he would be undisturbed, and that even in the event of an emergency, another lieutenant would be called upon before him. He had not, however, reckoned with James Fitzjames.

“Lieutenant Crozier! You won’t believe it but there’s been a whale sight—Good Christ.”

The door had slid open with a loud bang, nothing like the soft whisper with which Francis had closed it, and hot on the heels of that sound came the gangly figure of James Fitzjames, dress uniform still gleaming, barging into Francis’s berth without bothering to knock.

He did stop in the doorway when he caught sight of Francis.

Francis felt all colour drain from his face. “Close the bloody door,” he hissed. He was—by God, he was mortified. Fitzjames, still half in the door and half out, took a step forward. Then he closed the door.

Francis’s fault for not specifying, really.

“I’m sorry, Mr Crozier, I—”

Francis silenced him with a look. He sat up, his shirt only half covering his dignity. It wasn’t like there was anything he could do to take back what Fitzjames had seen. By Jove, his eyes looked big enough to pop clean out of his head, the way he was trying to maintain eye contact with Francis while his eyes kept wandering back to Francis’s prick.

“Can’t you knock, boy?”

He pulled the shirt closed over his shoulders. Fitzjames looked bloody welded to the spot where he was standing, resplendent in his white trousers and spotless uniform jacket, arms behind his back. His face was rather red. And Francis noticed something else.

“I’m sorry,” Fitzjames said again.

The boy had a great bloody hard-on, barely concealed by his uniform trousers. It had to be uncomfortable, going by the way he fidgeted in place—and Christ, was that for Francis? He could scarcely believe it, but the evidence left him few other options to consider. He was suddenly very aware of the fine figure of Fitzjames, the boyish roundness of his face just beginning to sharpen into something very bold and masculine indeed, the brown eyes that looked hunted and deep with desire at the same time, the broadening shoulders, the fine and strong arms. He was exactly the sort of man Francis would be salivating over if he still allowed himself those fantasies, Francis realised.

“I can leave,” Fitzjames said faintly. Francis should agree, say yes, and put this whole affair behind them. He would, if he knew what was good for him.

“Come here,” he said, and Fitzjames practically stumbled over his own feet in his haste to comply. Francis put a steadying hand to his side as Fitzjames fumbled for his prick. He had to muffle the noise that wanted to escape his mouth against Fitzjames’s shoulder when Fitzjames found his mark. He’d admired the man’s uniform trousers a minute ago, now he cursed them as he fumbled with a fairly unreasonable number of buttons before he could close a hand around Fitzjames’s hard—incredibly hard, wonderfully hard—prick.

Fitzjames moaned, and Francis slapped his free hand over his mouth. “Are you stupid, boy?” he hissed, and Fitzjames met his glare with wide eyes. “Keep your mouth shut.”

They ended up with Francis leaning against the bulkhead, Fitzjames kneeling in his lap and biting his lips to keep quiet as Francis frigged him with rough strokes. Fitzjames’s hand on Francis’s prick was shaking. Francis found this evidence of desire from Fitzjames more arousing that he could put into words. A sheen of sweat had gathered on Fitzjames’s brow and Francis eyed it with a vicious satisfaction. What a way to ruin a pretty thing.

“You’ve a fine prick, sir.” Fitzjames’s whole body was shaking in his lap. “Fat and thick. I could take it for you, if you’d let me.”

Not only stupid but reckless. He was rattling off a list of offenses that would see them both hanged and yet Francis couldn’t find it in himself to tell him to stop. The image was pure sin—Fitzjames and his pretty arse seated on Francis’s cock, his narrow hips in Francis’s broad hands as he fucked himself on Francis. It was enough to make a man spend from thinking on it alone.

“Shut your mouth,” Francis said, “You’ll take what you’re given.”

At that, Fitzjames squeezed his prick vindictively. “If you insist, sir.”

By way of response, Francis wound a hand into Fitzjames’s hair and brought him down into a crushing kiss. Fitzjames moaned in surprise but was quick to shove his tongue into Francis’s mouth, an invasion of practised deliberateness. Francis’s breath shortened. He felt flayed open by the motion of Fitzjames’s tongue in his mouth, his hand on Francis’s prick. He wanted to hold out—Lord knew he was inviting Fitzjames’s mockery—but a twist of Fitzjames’s wrist and Fitzjames sucking on his tongue with determination had him spill, covering his belly and both their hands as he shivered through it. His mind went blank for a few blissful seconds.

When he returned to himself, Fitzjames was grinding himself on Francis’s thigh with needful little sounds, brown eyes fixed helplessly on Francis’s face. He made quite the picture of youthful desire—Francis smiled wickedly before he reached for him, pulling Fitzjames against his chest with a hand between their bellies, frigging Fitzjames’s prick quickly and ruthlessly while his other hand cradled the back of Fitzjames’s head. The buttons of Fitzjames’s uniform were pressing into his skin.

Fitzjames’s whole body jolted in Francis’s arms when he spilled. He shook for nearly a minute, covering Francis’s hand in wetness and breathing like he’d run a full mile. Francis felt an almost protective urge take hold of his heart and quickly tamped down on it—his heart, he knew, was not to be trusted in such matters. He hated Fitzjames, hated how pretty he looked in his uniform, how he styled his hair and preened when it was time for muster.

Fitzjames extricated himself with none of the grace with which he’d catapulted himself into Francis’s bunk. He was unsteady on his legs, a fact that Francis noted with some satisfaction. The front of his uniform was smeared with white stains—Francis’s prick pulsed painfully to see it. Already Francis felt the sickly aftertaste of a mistake settle on his tongue.

“We won’t speak of this,” he said. “And it will remain a singular occurrence.”

For a moment, Fitzjames looked like Francis had slapped him across the face—the sharp sting in his eyes, the curled set of his mouth. Then he visibly steeled himself.

“As you wish, Mr Crozier.”

The coldness was practised, deliberate. Francis watched as Fitzjames began dabbing at his uniform. He’d never pass muster like this, and Francis hated him for trying to salvage what he could of the uniform. Hated that he still looked fine in it, somehow. A vase made more beautiful by the crack that ran through it.

“How was Valetta?”

He longed for a return to the script of their professional interactions. He’d see Fitzjames again in that uniform—on deck tomorrow, under the unforgiving Mediterranean sun, looking like a sea and a sky in himself, blue waves and blinding white. He’d see him and remember, unable to do anything but remember. Then the full force of his error would reveal itself to him.

Fitzjames paused at the question, the cloth still in one hand. He stuck his chin out—his silent defiance the only weapon he wielded against Francis. “Fine, sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m also on on [tumblr](https://veganthranduil.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/veganthranduil) as veganthranduil. If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving me a comment.


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